Navy SEAL Rescuer

by McCoy, Shirlee

He followed them into the heavy overgrowth, head-high weeds and dried grass pressing in close, reminding him of far-off days and late-night treks through planted fields and desert scrub. Different place, different circumstances, but the adrenaline was the same, the skin-tightening feeling that he wasn’t alone was the same.

  Sirens screamed, their warning swelling and then ending abruptly. Help had arrived. If the perp was close by, he wouldn’t be for long. Not with the police on-site. Darius slipped through the tangled vegetation, following a trail of broken branches and crushed grass, the Glock a comforting weight in his hand.

  He’d spent four years as a Navy SEAL working in enemy territory in Afghanistan searching out top-ranking al Qaeda operatives, and he’d never gotten tired of the hunt. Even now, stateside and working as a security contractor, he loved this part of the job the most.

  Cat and mouse.

  Hide-and-seek.

  Him against the enemy.

  He followed the trail deeper into the field, then back through sparser growth and out into Catherine’s property. An old farmhouse jutted up from the middle of an overgrown yard, its front door swinging open.

  Darius approached cautiously, his senses alert, his nerves alive with anticipation. Cans of paint sat on the porch, a gray paint roller abandoned beside them. A red shoe print marred one whitewashed floorboard, and letters were painted across the width of the porch floor. Someone had covered them with a thin layer of white paint, but they were still easy to read.

  Murderer.

  Had the person who’d attacked Catherine vandalized the property first? He frowned, stepping into the foyer, heat pressing in on every side. No breeze to cut the oppressive air. No open windows to clear the heavy scent of cigarette smoke.

  Sweat trickled down his temples and rolled into his eyes. He ignored it, his attention on the creak and groan of the old house, the moan of settling wood. Life had a different sound, a different feel, and he walked through a small living room, knowing it was empty. The dining room was empty, too, a nicked wood table and an old china cabinet the only furniture. No chairs. No painting. No curtains on the windows. Everything spare and worn.

  The floor creaked as he walked back through the foyer and into what might have once been a family room. The room held a fireplace on one wall, a hospital bed, a dresser and a chair. A small refrigerator sat on the floor, a half dozen medicine bottles sitting on top of it. Someone had installed a window air-conditioning unit, and it hummed softly as Darius checked the closet and a small bathroom.

  Empty.

  The kitchen was the same. Nearly gutted with nothing but an old oven and a chipped sink, it had seen better days. Tools lay on the floor and paint peeled off the windowsills. Someone had been working hard, but the house still felt tired and old as if the life had been sucked out of it. Lived in, but already abandoned.

  The front door opened, the floorboards in the hallway creaking. Footsteps on stairs and someone walking above his head. Not the police. They’d follow protocol and announce their presence.

  He eased up the stairs, slowly, quietly. Whoever was in the house wasn’t being quiet about it. Drawers opened. Something slid across the floor.

  Searching for something?

  He followed the sounds, lunging as a figure darted from the room at the far end of the hall. His bum leg screamed in protest, phantom pain spearing up from the place where his calf had been, but he didn’t hesitate, didn’t let the pain stall his momentum. He slammed the perp against the wall, his forearm pressed across a soft throat as he looked into a bruised face and dark blue eyes.

  Catherine.

  “You’re supposed to be at my place,” he said, biting back the harsh words that were on the tip of his tongue.

  “I have to get to the hospital.” Her voice shook, but it was the only indication of her fear.

  “Not at the risk of your life.”

  “The person who attacked me would have to be crazy to hang around.”

  “The police were okay with you walking off?” Because, he wasn’t.

  “There are officers all over the road looking for evidence. I was safe enough,” she hedged.

  “You didn’t get permission to leave, did you?”

  “I was waiting to be interviewed. It was taking too long.”

  “You can’t do your grandmother any good if you’re dead.”

  “I’m not, so it’s a moot point,” she said, her cheeks heating, her eyes flashing.

  “It doesn’t pay to take chances.” He tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he followed her down the stairs.

  “I need to get to the hospital.” She grabbed keys from a small table in the foyer and shoved them in her pocket, her hand shaking.

  She put on a good show, but she was terrified.

  “You’d better let the police know that you’re leaving.”

  “They’re smart. I’m sure they’ll figure it out.” She walked outside, and he followed, ignoring her dark look. “Thank you for your help, Mr....?”

  “Osborne. Darius.”

  “Catherine Miller, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

  “I’ve seen the news stories.”

  “Who hasn’t?” She smiled, her eyes empty and quiet. “You saved my life, and I don’t take that lightly, but I’m fine now, and I need to get going.”

  So did he. He’d planned every minute of his two-week vacation. Paint the house. Strip and refinish the hardwood floors. Fix the leaking kitchen sink. Get the house he’d bought three months ago in order so it seemed more like a home and less like a place to stay.

  But the bruises on Catherine’s face, the welts on her neck, the quick beat of her pulse in the hollow of her throat made him hesitate. “How about you let me give you a ride to the hospital?”

  “I have a car.”

  “So do I.”

  “What—”

  “The police are here.” Darius cut her off as a police cruiser parked on the cracked and crumbled driveway. A tall dark-haired officer got out. Darius knew him. Deputy Sheriff Logan Randal. They’d run into each other on a couple of cases, and Darius had liked the guy.

  “Catherine!” Randal called. “You were supposed to stay inside and wait for me.”

  “I told you my grandmother needed to be picked up.”

  “I can send an officer for her.”

  “And scare her to death? I don’t think so.”

  Randal sighed and took off his hat, running a hand down his jaw. “Osborne, you were there when everything went down?”

  “I heard Catherine’s screams, but I didn’t see the perp. No sign of him here, either.”

  “I need to leave.” Catherine sidled past, and Randal grabbed her arm.

  “Whoa! Slow down, Catherine. I can’t let you walk away unescorted. We don’t know who attacked you, why he did it or where he is now.”

  “Neither do I, and Eileen is waiting.”

  Obviously, they knew each other.

  Even more obviously, Catherine didn’t care about the connection or Logan’s authority as an officer of the law. She seemed bound and determined to leave.

  “I’ll escort her to the hospital.”

  “I don’t need an escort.”

  “Yeah. You do.” Darius followed her down the porch steps and around the side of the house.

  She ignored him, not glancing over her shoulder, not telling him to leave. Just walking, sunlight pouring over her bright red hair and casting shadows be
neath her eyes.

  He could go back to his renovation work, go back to his first day of vacation and let Logan deal with Catherine and the person who’d attacked her.

  He could, but he followed Catherine to a rickety garage, anyway, because following her was a whole lot better than going home to his silent house. His boss and friend Ryder Malone had insisted that four years was too long to go without a vacation. He was probably right, but vacation without family didn’t feel like much of a vacation. All it did was remind him of what he didn’t have.

  Catherine hefted the garage door, but he pulled her back before she could walk into the dank interior.

  “Let me check things out, first.”

  He expected her to argue, maybe tell him to go home, but she stepped aside, staring out over the golden-brown fields, silent, stiff and expressionless.

  He had the impression of careful control and deep emotion.

  That made him want to poke a little, see what kind of reaction he could get.

  Surprising, because he didn’t believe in poking or prodding or searching for something deeper. He’d tried it before, found what he’d wanted to find instead of what was there. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, but he would check the garage and make sure danger wasn’t waiting in the dark corners and deep shadows.

  He turned away from Catherine and walked into the musty garage.

  TWO

  Please, go.

  That’s what Catherine needed to say to Darius.

  Two words that she’d said to all the news reporters, old friends and strangers who’d come around trying to get the scoop on the Dark Angel of Good Samaritan over the past two months.

  She couldn’t manage to get the words out, and she stood silently as Darius preceded her into the garage.

  No one was there.

  She was as sure of that as she was that the sun would shine in the morning, but she let him look, because she didn’t want to be alone. Not yet.

  Her neck burned and throbbed, but she didn’t touch the bruised skin, tried not to remember the feeling of fingers on flesh or think about what might have happened if Darius hadn’t called out. Another minute, and she would have been out of breath. All the fighting skills she’d learned in prison had been useless against someone double her size and strength.

  Would she have died on the dusty old road?

  She shuddered, taking a step into the dim garage. It smelled of gasoline and oil, mildew and wet wood. She’d have to tear the place down eventually, but she had too many projects on her hands already, and not enough time to get to them.

  “It’s clear. Come on in,” Darius called out, and she hurried to the 1965 Buick, grabbing her purse from under the front seat. She took out her cell phone, shoving it into her pocket. Leaving it in the car had been a mistake that she wouldn’t repeat. From now on, she’d carry it everywhere.

  Just in case.

  She gave in to temptation, touching the swollen place on her jaw, the hot flesh of her neck. Raw and dry, her throat tightened, her breath catching.

  Stop!

  The last thing she needed or wanted was a panic attack.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” Darius asked, his light green eyes glowing in a deeply tanned face. Dark hair fell across his forehead, silky and blue-black, but it didn’t make him look boyish or approachable. He looked hard and tough and capable, the gun she’d watched him take from his closet held loose in a broad hand.

  Was he a cop? FBI? He had the look. All hard lean muscle and lithe movements.

  “Catherine? Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” he asked again, his hand brushing her shoulder, his touch so light she barely felt it.

  “No. I’m fine. Thanks for all your help. You can leave.” There. She’d said it. Easy as pie.

  “I’ll wait until you get this beast out of the garage. Think it’ll start?” He patted the hood of her grandmother’s rusty old car.

  “It should.” But just like everything else around the farm, the car had seen better days. She got in the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition and heard nothing but a quiet click. She tried again and again with the same results.

  Just once.

  Just once, she wanted things to go her way.

  She turned the key one more time, wrenching it hard.

  “Sounds like you need a new battery or a new starter. Breaking the key in the ignition won’t change either of those things.” Darius reached in and pulled the key from the ignition.

  “It started fine this morning,” she muttered, grabbing her purse and getting out of the car. Time was ticking, and Eileen was waiting. She couldn’t spend any more time fighting with the car.

  “She’s an old car. She needs a little TLC.”

  “Everything around this place does,” she responded, following him back out into the bright sunlight.

  “My place is the same way, but I do have a truck that’s reliable. Come on. I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.” He led the way back across the yard, a hitch to his stride that she hadn’t noticed before. Slight, but definitely there. Had he been hurt while he hunted the guy who’d attacked her?

  She wanted to ask, but the words caught in her throat as he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans.

  It had been a long time since she’d made small talk.

  She wasn’t sure if she still knew how to do it.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, his eyes such a pure light green, she wondered if he wore contacts.

  “You hurt your leg,” she said, finally managing to loosen her tongue and get the words out.

  “Not recently.”

  “You’re limping.”

  “That happens when the lower part of a person’s leg is amputated.” He responded so casually, she almost missed what he was saying.

  “You’re an amputee?”

  “My leg was blown off by a booby-trapped weapon cache. That’s why I’m stateside instead of with my buddies in Afghanistan.” Darius offered the information, knowing it would distract Catherine, ease some of the tension from her face and shoulders.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m alive. Some of my buddies weren’t so fortunate.”

  “Then, I guess I’m even more sorry,” she responded, surprising him. Most people who heard the story missed the part where he mentioned the bigger loss he’d suffered. Not his leg. His comrades. He’d give the other leg and both his arms to have any of them back.

  “It was rough.”

  “What happ—?”

  “How about we save the question-and-answer session for another day?” He cut her off. Sharing some information to take her mind off what had happened was one thing. Talking in depth about his loss, that was something else.

  “I thought you were heading to the hospital,” Logan called from the porch, and Catherine stiffened, her tension flooding back.

  “The Buick wouldn’t start.”

  “Not surprising. You need to trade that rust bucket in for something reliable.”

  “The car is fine, Logan.” She sounded weary, and Darius had the urge to slide an arm around her waist, let her lean on him. He doubted she ever leaned on anyone, though, and he kept his distance, watching as she brushed dirt from her faded jeans and avoided Logan’s eyes.

  “I noticed you had some vandalism on the porch. When did it happen?”

  “Sometime after I left to bring Eileen to the hospital. The siding was v
andalized, too, but I was able to cover that before...” She didn’t finish, and Darius imagined her out on the porch, covering paint with paint while danger stalked her.

  “You didn’t report it,” Logan said, and Catherine shrugged.

  “I reported the broken windows three weeks ago. I reported the slashed tire before that. I reported crank calls and people driving by the house at all hours of the night. It didn’t do me any good. I figured calling the sheriff about this was going to be just as useless.”

  “I’m sorry you felt that way, Catherine. We’ve been working hard to identify the perpetrators of those crimes. It just takes time,” Logan responded with more gentleness than Darius had ever seen in him. Did he feel guilty for his part in Catherine’s conviction and incarceration? No doubt, he’d been with the sheriff’s department when she’d been accused of murdering eleven patients at the convalescent center where she’d worked.

  “I know that, and I’m not blaming your office, Logan. It’s just...I don’t have time. Eileen is really sick, and I can’t have her stressed out and upset every other week. I figured I’d just clean things up before she got home and pretend nothing had happened.”

  “Pretending won’t make trouble go away.”

  “I know.” She touched the bruise on her jaw. “Look, I know you have a bunch of questions, and I’ll answer them. But I really have to get to the hospital. I don’t want Eileen waiting and wondering if something has happened to me.”

  “Something did happen to you,” Darius cut in, and she frowned.

  “Nothing permanent. We’ll talk when I get back, Logan,”

  “We’ll be here. I called in a K-9 unit, and I’m hoping they’ll catch the perp’s trail. Want me to have an officer give you a ride to the hospital?”

  “I don’t think I want to be seen in a police car, but thank you,” she responded, a hint of irony in her words.

  “We can have an unmarked car—”

  “I’m going to give her a ride, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t run into any more trouble on the way to or from the hospital.” Darius cut into the conversation again, and Catherine wanted to tell him that she’d be the one to make sure that she didn’t run into more trouble. That she’d take care of herself and her grandmother the same way she had for most of her life, but saying anything would take time and effort she didn’t want to waste.